


House of Shadows

by AppleNapoleon, lizzlybonk



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angstshipping - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Haunted House, Illustrated, M/M, Spooky AU, YGOTP, ~symbolism~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleNapoleon/pseuds/AppleNapoleon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzlybonk/pseuds/lizzlybonk
Summary: The house outside of town is haunted - but Malik is too, so nothing he finds in there could be much of a threat. Not even the pretty ghost boy.Or, the non-supernatural version: Bakura Ryou is a recluse, and Malik Ishtar is a petty criminal with a crush.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 'Cast a Spell' prompt from [ygotp](http://ygotp.tumblr.com/), which I interpreted as 'ghost porn'.
> 
> Words by Apple, art by Lizzly. See more of her work [here](http://lizzarts.tumblr.com/). Edited by the lovely [Pips](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippin4242/pseuds/Pippin4242).

It’s said the house at the edge of town is haunted.

The house is old – pre-war – and build in the traditional Japanese style. It’s two stories tall and the windows are wooden crosses covered with rice paper. Shapes and lights move behind them. On occasion a boy has been seen, but he’s as pale as the paper windows. It’s said that those who catch sight of him aren’t long for this world.

Malik Ishtar goes to the house at night with an electric torch, a digital camera, and a bottle of water. He should be asleep. He should be at home.

The house’s grand wooden door is beautifully ornate. Carved into the dark wood of the doorframe is a pattern of spirits and demons, intertwined in eternal battle. Time and rain have worn them smooth enough to be indistinguishable from each other. It’s an effort for Malik to pull the door open.

The first room is a kind of foyer. It’s decorated and dusty. Malik snaps a few pictures of vases, dolls, paintings on the walls. Everything in here is either ancient and expensive or not old enough and worthless. He considers picking up a doll to examine it but refrains. Its face is simple, dots for eyes and two red curves for lips, but that simple face holds a deep and terrible judgement.

In the foyer a grand staircase leads up. There are doors set into both the right and left walls of the ground floor. Malik photographs the layout and examines it on his camera screen. No figures on the stairs, no strange lights in the corner. Useless.

When he looks up he notices that the left door is slightly ajar. He stares at it, wrinkles his nose, and decides his bravery is stronger than his fear. It leads to a long corridor. Dotted on the walls are occasional photographs. He wipes the dust from the glass to better see them but they’re only landscapes. In one, a picture of a beach, are two children with their backs to the camera. They both have white-pale hair, but the picture’s monochrome. They’re too small for any further details to be clear: they’re in the corner, like an afterthought, like an accident.

Malik takes some pictures of the corridor as he walks. The ceilings are high. He opens the first sliding door he comes across and on the other side is some kind of family room. The furniture is jarringly modern yet charmingly vintage. The settees have a pattern of large, colourful polka dots and the TV has a built-in VCR player. The glass surface of the coffee table is clear of any magazines or books and there are no pictures. The room looks like a dusty museum exhibition of the domestic seventies.

The bookshelf against one wall contains a classic and dull collection of books: an atlas, encyclopaedias, a couple of slim volumes of poetry. Children's literature fills the lowest shelf. They’re all in English.

Malik hears footsteps and turns quickly, camera raised. He thinks a shadow passes behind the sliding door but that could have been his imagination coupled with the wildly swung torch in his outstretched arm.

He leaves the living room, heads further into the house. It looks like the shadow went this way. He gives the other rooms he finds only cursory glances. A library. Another living room, this one with much grander furniture. A study.

Malik closes the door to the study and there’s a person standing in front of him.

His white hair is a wild, tangled mess, and his eyes reflect the torch’s light like a cat’s. He’s wearing a plain black hakama and haori, though not well. The appearance is overall dishevelled.

Malik raises his camera and takes a photo.

The person snarls. “Get _out_ ,” he says.

“Is this your house?” says Malik.

“Yes,” says the person. “The house and everything in it. Get _out_.”

“No,” says Malik and walks past him.

The person snarls again. “This house doesn’t need any more shit in it.”

Malik stops and looks down. “I’ll take my shoes off next time,” he says.

“There’s won’t _be_ a fucking _next time_ , you-!”

Malik opens another door. The person falls silent. This room holds more dolls, and a _lot_ more of them. A huge doll display takes up most of the room. It’s a wooden stand with many tiers, each decorated with exquisite china dolls, and so many tiers it nearly reaches the ceiling. The top tier contains only two dolls dressed in what looks to be real silk.

In front of it, sitting on the floor, is another person. Their hair is also white, pulled back with a ribbon at the back of their head. They’re dressed in what a Harajuku fashionista would think of as Victorian boyswear. Their shirt is mostly lace with wide, draped sleeves, and coupled with high-waisted black shorts that end mid-thigh. Covering their legs are long black stockings that reveal an inch of white thigh. They’re sitting on the floor, one knee raised, leaning their head on it. When Malik opens the door they look up and blink long white eyelashes at him.

“Oh,” they say. “Hello.”

“Hey,” says Malik.

He looks over his shoulder. The wild-haired person has gone.

“He doesn’t really like strangers,” says the person in the doll room. “Sorry.”

Malik shrugs. “I don’t either.”

"Oh,” says the person.

“You’re the boy in white, aren’t you?” says Malik. “The one who brings death.”

The boy sighs and lays his head on his knee again. “Yes,” he says.

Malik takes a picture. He examines it on his camera but it’s just a picture of a pale boy in a ridiculous outfit.

“Well, thanks for letting me look around your house,” says Malik. He turns to go.

“Wait!” says the boy. He’s getting to his feet. Once he’s standing he looks at Malik with pleading eyes.

“You shouldn’t come back,” says the boy.

Malik looks at him. He shrugs.

Then he walks home in the night without stars and goes to bed and pretends to sleep. He looks through the pictures on his camera and stares.

Even if he is a ghost, he’s photogenic.

*

Malik leaves his shoes in the foyer and takes the door to the right. The first room he finds this time is a grand dining room with high-backed chairs and a long table. There’s a dark green rug underfoot. Set against one wall is a drinks cabinet. A huge, gold-framed mirror occupies the wall opposite the door. Malik takes a selfie with it.

Next is a smaller, less imposing dining room. Malik wonders about the reason for there being so many duplicate rooms, all in different styles. This dining room looks like it belongs in a coastal cottage.

The kitchen is _massive_ , with an oven and hob large enough for a restaurant and one of those ridiculous giant American fridge-freezers. There are _two_ sinks, a breakfast bar, and walls of cupboards. The aesthetic is dark stone, grey steel, and too cavernous. No wonder this place has been abandoned. Trying to imagine himself eating a bowl of cereal in a kitchen like this makes Malik’s skin itch. He leaves without taking any pictures.

The wild-haired person is waiting in the corridor again. “I told you to _get out_ ,” he says.

“Yes,” says Malik, “but you never told me not to come back.”

They growl. “Then I’ll tell you _now_. We don’t need anyone else and we certainly don’t need your fucking _problems_ in here with us-“

“Are you brothers?” Malik asks.

The wild-haired youth pauses. “We are something you won’t understand,” he says proudly. “Brothers might be the closest thing _you’d_ comprehend.”

The boy in white is in the next room. Again when Malik steps into the room he looks back and sees the wild-haired one is gone. This room looks like a museum. There are glass display cabinets everywhere. One contains photograph plates and a Victorian-looking camera. Others hold fans, jewellery pieces, handwritten books, and other miscellany of history. 

The largest cabinet contains things of a worrying familiarity. Malik crosses to it and yes, it’s as he thought: sacred scarabs, statues of the Ancient Egyptian gods, even a collection of embalming jars – probably belonging to some rich merchant, not fancy enough to be royalty. In pride of place is a gold death mask.

He feels sick.

“A historian once lived here,” says the boy in white. “He liked to bring his work home with him.”

“At least his home wasn’t his work,” says Malik. He can feel a headache forming in his left temple.

“I said you shouldn’t come back,” says the boy.

“I’ve not finished looking around,” says Malik.

The boy crosses the room to stand beside Malik. He leaves only a few inches as distance between them. The boy appears to be examining the camera. His outfit is different today; it’s a white nightgown with too many embellishments to be comfortable sleepwear. His hair is braided down his neck. His feet are bare.

“Most would consider breaking and entering rude,” says the boy mildly.

“I didn’t break anything,” replies Malik. “The front door was open.”

The boy hums.

“Who’s the other guy?” asks Malik.

The boy doesn’t answer.

Malik huffs and turns to look at a different display cabinet. There’s a ring in there that apparently belonged to some prince or princess or both.

“He hates strangers. He _really_ hates me leaving,” says the boy in white. “He’s a kind of company, I suppose.”

“How did he get here?”

The boy stands up straight and smiles. “Ghosts appear only if there’s a place for them,” he says. Then he stops smiling, and tilts his head, and looks at Malik with a gaze so suddenly piercing it almost hurts. “You should be careful.”

*

The third night. Malik’s brought a rucksack. He goes upstairs. The wooden stairs creak under his socked feet and he leaves footprints in the dust.

There’s a grand photo portrait on the landing. It shows a man, woman, and two children. Malik thinks one of them might be the boy in white – but a younger version, a version with a sweeter smile and no dark circles below his eyes. This photograph is also monochrome. Malik wonders if one of the parents thought themselves artistic.

This floor contains another library, a music room (complete with upright piano), and a luxurious marble bathroom. The bath has _jets_. Malik takes a picture out of envy.

The wild-haired youth is waiting for him outside it. He’s standing by the door and glaring at Malik.

“Look, I’ll try to be _civil_ ,” he says. He doesn’t look in a good way. His haori is starting to slip off his shoulders. His hair looks worse: more tangled, more matted.

“Get out of here or you’ll die,” says the wild-haired youth.

Malik arches an eyebrow. “You’re not good at civil, are you?”

The youth growls. It seems to be his preferred method of communication. 

“You don’t know about this house,” says the youth. “You don’t know about _us_. You need to _get out_ and _leave us alone_.”

“Why doesn’t he let you in the same room as him?”

The youth looks taken aback.

“You wouldn’t _understand_ ,” he says.

“No,” says Malik, “I probably wouldn’t.”

He walks past the youth and doesn’t hear him follow.

Malik opens the next door and reveals some kind of tearoom. It has tall glass windows framed by thick velvet curtains. Delicate figures of china shepherdesses and their suitors stand on shelves protected by glass. Against one wall is a white stone fireplace. A fire burns low in the grate, casting little enough light that Malik decides to keep his torch on.

In the centre of the room is a spindly table and two chairs. They’re made of pale metal; the table has a glass top. On the table is a teapot and two teacups. In one of the chairs is the boy.

He’s wearing shawls today, as far as Malik can tell. There’s so much material draped over him Malik’s not sure there are any actual clothes under there. One bare foot lies flat on the floor, a golden chain on the thin ankle.

“You need to stop coming back,” says the boy.

Malik crosses the room and turns the other chair around. He sits on it backwards, leaning his arms on the back of the chair.

“I brought snacks,” says Malik. “Want any?”

He sets his rucksack down at his feet and pulls a packet of biscuits from it. He opens it and places it on the table.

“What’s this house’s story, anyway?” says Malik.

The boy tilts his head. His hair is up in a braided bun. “Which one?”

Malik eats a biscuit.

“This house was once owned by a man and a woman, and they were happy,” says the boy. “When they had children they were even happier.” He smiles thinly. “It’s hard to be so happy for such a long time.

“One day the little boy and little girl played hide-and-seek in this house. The little girl thought the old well would be a clever place to hide. It had long since been boarded up and appeared quite safe. She lifted the heavy lid and climbed inside.

“The old wood boarding up the bottom of the well snapped. She fell into the mud and no one could hear her scream. Her brother looked all through the house, and then so did her parents, and then so did the town. 

“Three days later the lid of the well was lifted and the broken wood revealed. Her corpse was perfect – mud mummifies its victims. She drowned in the muck and the dark, all alone.

“The father threw himself into his work. The mother disappeared. And the little boy became a ghost.”

Malik eats another biscuit. His left temple hurts again.

“Shit,” he says. “How come she doesn’t haunt here?”

“She does,” says the boy, “but she’s not a ghost.”

“You said there are other stories,” says Malik. He picks up the teacup before him. It’s a thin bone china. What he thought were small flowers decorating the edge turn out to be skulls.

“Of course,” says the boy. “There’s been a house on this site for hundreds of years. Which do you want to know? The story of the cruel lord who sent his troops to slaughter all who lived in the village, leaving only a single child to tell the story? The story of the fair maiden, murdered by her lover’s jealous father? The boy, possessed by a demon, tricking others into death by promising games?”

The boy leans forward. His shawls part and Malik sees he’s wearing a white kimono beneath them. His obi is a viscous red.

“The story of the explorer, thinking himself noble, trapped in this house. At home his family waits. They pace and try not to cry in preparation for the second tragedy in as many years. They beg him to come back but he can’t: the house has taken his heart and its claws are so much stronger than their love.”

Malik’s mouth is dry.

“I’m not trapped here,” he says. “That’s why I keep leaving.”

“It seems one of us has the story wrong,” says the boy.

Malik stands. He knocks the table to the floor. Teapot and teacups shatter, as does the glass. The bright biscuit wrapper screams its artificial colours atop the sharp and shining shards.

“I’ll never allow myself to be trapped again,” says Malik.

“So said the frog,” says the boy. He stands, unfolds himself from the chair, and stands on top of the broken debris at his feet. “Yet still, he found himself in the boiling pot.”

*

It’s a week before Malik returns. He kicks his shoes off angrily at the door, stomps his way up the stairs. He opens doors hard, throwing them into their sliding frames, paying little attention to what lies behind them. A nursery. A bedroom. Another bedroom.

“Where the hell are you?” he shouts.

The house swallows his words. They sound flat in the silence.

He hears footsteps ahead. Malik breaks into a run.

The door ahead of him closes just as he reaches it. He yanks it open, gets a brief glance of a double bed - _he’s pushed inside_.

He trips over the threshold. His torch flies from his hand. He turns, makes a grab for it, and the door closes behind him. He’s left in darkness. He scrabbles for the handle, desperately pulls at the door. It won’t move. Everything’s dark. There’s nothing but blackness and his own panicked breath and he _can’t get out._

“What happened to your father?” says a voice in the dark.

Malik pushes against the door. He tries hitting it. It’s only paper, after all, it should break easily under his palm, it should rip, he needs to get out, _he can’t be in here_.

“What happened to your father?” says the voice again. It’s moving closer.

“He died,” says Malik. “He died, okay, just _let me out!_ ”

A sudden pain across his back. He cries out.

“What happened to your father?”

“I _said!_ He died!”

Another lash of pain. Malik tries to move away from the wall. He’s on his hands and knees, feeling his way around the darkness. There must be a window, right? He can get out through the window. It’s the second floor, it’s not too bad a drop.

“What happened to your father?”

“He was killed! Someone broke into the house and killed him!”

Pain again.

_It’s a whip_ , Malik realises. _Oh fuck, oh god, it’s a **whip**._

“What happened to your father?”

“He was murdered! What the hell do you want from me? How does this work into your little spooky game? I’m not- Bakura, I’m not playing this!”

The pain is worse every time. Malik feels his back open, can feel blood welling in the wounds. _Not this. Not this again, please, please._

“What happened to your father?”

“He’s dead! He’s dead, and I killed him, and _I’m not sorry!_ ”

A face. It looks like Malik’s, but the eyes are wider, bloodshot, the hair a mess, blood dripping from the blond tips. It looks into Malik’s eyes and there’s blood on its teeth.

“What happened to _you?_ ” it says.

The door behind Malik opens. Light floods the room. He turns, crawls out, pushes the door closed behind him, collapses on the floor. He pulls at his shirt, tears at it as he lifts it over his head, runs his hand over his back. There’s no blood. There are no fresh cuts. The scars are the same as always.

“I told you to be careful,” says the boy.

Malik looks up. He’s wearing the same white kimono as before, but it’s not worn properly: his obi is tied sloppily at his front like a sash, the kimono itself loose. He’s holding a paper lantern. The light is much dimmer than Malik’s torch, but is so much better than the suffocating blackness of the other room. The boy stifles a yawn as Malik watches.

“It’s not a very nice house,” the boy continues. “Ghosts only appear if there’s a place for them.”

“I killed my father,” says Malik.

The boy shrugs. “And I killed my sister. She didn’t even deserve it.”

Malik climbs shakily to his feet. He yanks his shirt back down. He’s torn the collar. 

“Your name’s Bakura, isn’t it?” he says. “I’ve heard this called the Bakura House.”

“Bakura Ryou,” says the boy. “Yours?”

“Malik Ishtar.”

“I’ll show you out,” says Bakura Ryou. He turns his back to Malik and begins walking. “I can’t imagine you’d want to stay here any longer.” His trails his fingertips the wall. “Don’t feel that you have to keep coming back anymore. The house has had its fun with you.”

Bakura Ryou’s hair is up in a sloppy bun. A strand of hair has escaped and is curled at the bare nape of his neck. Malik watches it as they walk. He can see the first knob of Bakura’s spine, the spider web blue of his veins.

“Thank you for your company,” continues Bakura. “It was nice to have someone to talk to, even for a little while.”

They’ve reached the stairs.

Malik touches the exposed back of Bakura’s neck.

He stops walking.

Turns, Malik’s hand curling around his neck.

The wild-haired youth, screaming, “ _Get out get out get out get out get out-_ ”

Bakura moves forward and kisses Malik’s ready lips.

The screams stop. Malik places a hand on Bakura’s hip, pulls him closer. The only sound is their mingled breathing and the slide of their lips. Bakura’s skin is cold.

“Show me _your_ room,” says Malik.

“You’re awfully presumptuous,” says Bakura. 

Malik bites Bakura’s neck. The pale boy whimpers, clutches at Malik’s shoulders.

“It seems you presume correctly,” says Bakura.

Malik takes his hand when he steps away. Bakura says nothing, only squeezes Malik’s fingers, and leads the way through the second-floor corridors to his bedroom. It has a high, vaulted ceiling, arches disappearing into darkness above. In the centre of the room is a circular bed. Light comes from lit red candles held in tiny stone alcoves all around the room.

“Why are all the rooms in this house so damn different?” says Malik aloud.

Bakura’s hand slides up Malik’s arm to his shoulder. “Do you really need me to answer?”

Malik turns and catches Bakura in a kiss again. He pushes him against the nearest wall, feels Bakura gasp against his mouth, and the pale boy’s long fingers tangle in Malik’s hair. Malik licks his bottom lip and Bakura opens his mouth eagerly, sucks on Malik’s tongue, pushes himself closer.

Malik moves his hand around to the badly-tied knot of the red obi. One tug and it opens. The kimono falls further off Bakura’s shoulders.

He’s wearing nothing under it.

He looks away. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he says defensively.

Malik grins. “Yes you were,” he says. “Hey, can I call you Ryou?”

Ryou looks up at Malik. His eyes are such a pale blue, like a single drop of cerulean paint in a water jar. The white eyelashes only make them look bigger.

“Please do,” says Ryou. “Call me Ryou, and I’ll call you Malik, and tonight we’ll…” He swallows. His Adam’s apple is small in his pale throat. Malik wants to kiss it, so he does, and Ryou tilts his head back.

Malik puts his hands on Ryou’s hips and pushes him up, just slightly, enough to force Ryou’s delicate bare feet from the floor. He clutches Malik’s shoulders and pouts. Malik meets Ryou’s expression of mild annoyance with a wider grin and wraps his arms around Ryou’s waist. It looks as if he’s going to be reprimanded but Ryou moves in for another kiss instead. He grows bolder with every one, tongue pushing at Malik’s lips then into his mouth, over his teeth and against Malik’s own tongue, his hand in Malik’s hair at the back of his head, the edges of his fingernails against Malik’s scalp. Malik moans into Ryou’s mouth and pushes his crotch forward.

He leans his head on Ryou’s shoulder and looks down. Ryou’s cock is half-hard, flushing dark pink, rubbing against the fabric Malik’s shirt.

Ryou pulls Malik’s hair, forcing him up. Ryou’s cheeks are turning pink.

“Don’t _stare_ ,” he says, and kisses Malik.

In response Malik kisses ‘round Ryou’s jaw. “Can I put you on the bed?” he asks.

Ryou nods, wraps his arms around Malik’s neck, and carrying him is easy. He weighs so little, feels like bone and silk in Malik’s grip. His breath against Malik’s ear is warm.

Malik lays Ryou down on the bed. The kimono’s fallen completely open. Ryou’s white, slightly curled hair haloes around his head, and his eyes when Malik meets them are fixed on him. His pink lips are slightly parted.

“Show me your cock,” says Ryou.

Malik pulls his shirt off first, discards it without taking his eyes from Ryou. Next go his socks, then his trousers and underpants together. He crawls onto the bed and up Ryou’s body.

“I have condoms in my trouser pocket,” he says.

Ryou makes a face. “No,” he says.

Malik pinches one of Ryou’s erect nipples. It’s a lovely shade of dark pink.

“What kind of STDs can I get from a ghost?”

Ryou sits up on his elbows. “What kind of person brings condoms to a haunted house?”

“And lube,” says Malik.

“Oh,” says Ryou. His pupils have gone wide. “You’re prepared. Very prepared.” He swallows, his next breath coming out in stutters. “Get up here, will you?”

He pulls at Malik’s hip until Malik is kneeling over Ryou’s chest. He leans forward, pulls back Malik’s foreskin to reveal the full flushed head of his cock, and slowly licks it.

“Fuck,” breathes Malik.

Ryou shuffles down until he’s in a better position. He wraps his hand around the base of Malik’s cock. His hand is soft, his grip firm, and he squeezes and pulls with utmost confidence as he keeps licking at the tip. He slides the flat of his tongue along Malik’s slit and looks up when Malik’s hand lands in his hair.

“Keep going,” says Malik. His chest heaves with his deep breaths. “Please. If you want to.”

“Do you want to fuck my mouth?” Ryou asks.

Malik has to close his eyes and take several deep breaths.

“It seems like a waste of lube,” says Ryou, “but as long as I’m full of your dick I don’t mind.”

Malik runs his hands through Ryou’s hair. His hair is soft and clean between his fingers.

“You’re the strangest ghost I’ve ever met,” he says.

Ryou’s eyes sparkle. He opens his mouth and slides the head of Malik’s cock between his lips. Ryou’s mouth is hot and wet and _eager_. He swallows down Malik’s length and for one heart-stopping moment Malik thinks he’s actually going to deep throat him, but then Ryou goes too far and pulls back coughing and Malik laughs.

He strokes Ryou’s cheek and the ghost-boy closes his eyes, leans into the touch for a moment, before returning to the task at hand. He goes slower this time, and though he isn’t able to hold Malik’s whole cock in his mouth at once he takes an impressive amount of it, and what doesn’t fit he masturbates with his hand. Ryou bobs his head and the wet noises he makes are _obscene_ , Malik’s thick flesh sliding over and against Ryou’s reddening lips, drool pooling in the corner of Ryou’s mouth and dripping onto his bare, pale chest, Malik’s panting and Ryou’s _moans_. Malik reaches back blindly and finds Ryou’s cock is fully erect, and a swipe of his hand finds he’s wet with precum. 

Malik closes his eyes and gently, experimentally, rocks his hips. Ryou answers by humming so Malik does it again, continues, until he looks down and Ryou looks up and Malik has to bite his lip and distract himself with pain to keep himself from coming embarrassingly soon.

“Stop,” Malik says, and Ryou obediently pulls back – though not very far, not so far that Malik’s cockhead doesn’t brush against his swollen lips.

For a beautiful moment Malik pictures Ryou’s face decorated with strings of his come, Ryou licking Malik’s semen from his lips and fingers, and Malik groans and moves down enough to grab Ryou’s face with both hands and kiss him bruising hard.

“Next time,” he promises, and feels a sharp intake of breath from Ryou – but that might have been because the way they’re lying now their groins are perfectly aligned. Ryou grabs the opportunity to push his cock against Malik’s and dig his long fingers into Malik’s arse.

Something hard and round is pushed into one of Malik’s hands and he opens his eyes to see it’s Ryou with the little bottle of lube Malik brought. Malik glances at his trousers, which are over by the door somewhere, then shrugs and takes the bottle anyway. This house is freaky, yes, but warm and writhing beneath him, Ryou is a different kind of freak altogether.

“So,” says Malik, “me inside you?”

Ryou nods. “Please,” he says.

Malik sits up and moves back. Ryou opens his legs, raises his knees, but still when Malik stops to drink in the sight of him – milky skin flushed pink, cock erect in a thatch of white curled pubic hair, his hips lifted to let Malik look at his sweet rosy hole, the discarded kimono bunched and tangled beneath him – Ryou kicks his hip.

“I _like_ you,” Malik says defensively. “If you didn’t want me to look you should have kept most of your clothes on, or something.”

Ryou blushes. “It’s… it’s not that I don’t _want_ you looking at me,” he says. “It’s more… do you… have to look so _much?_ ”

“Yes,” says Malik. He kisses Ryou’s knee as he snaps off the lube bottle’s plastic lid and squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers. “You’re beautiful.”

Ryou covers his face with his hands. 

“You are,” says Malik. He runs his wet fingers along the cleft of Ryou’s arse, stops to rub his fingertip against Ryou’s hole. “You’re gorgeous. I’ve wanted to fuck you since I first saw you.”

Ryou’s breath is hitching for all his apparent efforts to keep it calm and regular. “I did- I did dress up,” he admits.

Malik nuzzles Ryou’s knee as he eases his middle finger’s tip inside him. Ryou gasps at the intrusion and the muscles around Malik’s finger tense, but only for just a moment before Ryou forces himself to relax. Malik doesn’t push further for now, just gently eases his fingertip back and forth inside him.

“Not then,” says Malik quietly. He dares push in further, up to the second knuckle, and Ryou braces his feet on the bed and pushes down onto Malik.

“Not then?” says Ryou. He finally removes his hands from his face. “When…?”

Malik lubes up a second finger and pushes it inside. Ryou whines.

“I saw you when we first moved here,” Malik says.

He scissors his fingers. Ryou’s trying to push himself up onto his elbows but the position is awkward and every time he’s about to succeed Malik crooks his fingers and he falls back down again.

“ _Where?_ ”

Malik removes his fingers, squeezes more lube onto them, and pushes three inside. They disappear inside Ryou so _easily_ , like he’s been waiting for this.

“Pharmacy,” says Malik. “You were waiting for your meds ahead of me. You were wearing a woollen housecoat and looked like a middle-aged woman with too many cats. You were wearing slippers instead of shoes.”

“They’re- they’re _Uggs_ ,” says Ryou, “you… you’re _allowed_ to wear those outside…”

Malik strokes Ryou’s hip. “You walked into me on the way out.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” says Ryou, though whether that’s because of Malik’s story or because Malik keeps rubbing his prostate is hard to tell.

There’s still some of Ryou’s saliva wetting Malik’s cock but it’s not enough. Malik removes his fingers from inside Ryou – he whines again, and his hole closes around nothingness, hungry to be filled again – lubes his cock, and takes hold of Ryou’s hips. Ryou reaches down to hold Malik’s cock in place as he pushes inside. Malik moans and leans his head forward, and Ryou moves upwards to wrap his arms around Malik’s neck and kiss him fiercely.

“You said sorry,” Malik says. “You looked at me once and you were so _beautiful_. I wanted to see you again _so much_.”

Ryou laughs. “So you broke into my house?”

“You left me no choice,” Malik says. “You never go outside.”

Ryou kisses him and rocks his hips. At first they fuck like that, in the awkward position of Ryou hanging off Malik’s neck and breathing into Malik’s collarbone, just rocking against each other, Ryou’s cock trapped between them and smearing wetness over Malik’s stomach.

“You were stealing bottles of hand sanitizer,” Ryou says suddenly. “I wondered why one person was taking so many.”

“My room is full of crap like that,” says Malik.

They kiss once before Ryou lies back down. Malik takes hold of his hips and holds them still as he thrusts, harder and longer strokes than before.

“You made me so _nervous_ ,” says Ryou. “With the way - _ah_ , wait- _ah!_ You were… hanging around…”

Malik runs a hand over Ryou’s stomach. “Brought gifts.”

“Should’ve rung the doorbell,” says Ryou.

Malik takes hold of Ryou’s cock. It fits beautifully in his hand.

“Made an impression,” says Malik.

“Mmm,” says Ryou.

Ryou’s penis _feels_ beautiful in his hand, too, soft flesh responsive and twitching in Malik’s grasp. He’s slick with precum and moans delightfully when Malik rubs his thumb over his slit.

When Ryou comes he comes hard, so hard some of his spunk ends up on his own cheek. The sight of him licking it off is too much for Malik. He slams into Ryou and releases inside. Ryou squeezes down on his cock as he does. He makes a disappointed, pitiable little noise when Malik pulls his softening member out, though it’s followed by a strange little gasp as Malik watches his own jizz begin to leak out of Ryou in white rivulets.

Malik crawls around Ryou and lies down beside him. He wraps his arms around his waist and holds him tight.

“Should… clean up,” says Ryou. “Don’t want to wake up sticky.”

Malik kisses his shoulder. “Where’s the shower?”

Ryou sighs. “Who knows?” he says. His hand disappears down the side of the bed for a moment before returning with the red obiage. He looks at it, then shrugs.

Malik helps him wipe down his chest, which is mainly an excuse to touch him more, and wipes at Ryou’s thighs with great enthusiasm. The now-ruined material is thrown unceremoniously to the floor.

Malik lies back down, head on Ryou’s shoulder.

“I like you too,” Ryou says.

Malik sits up to look at Ryou in confusion. “Thanks?”

Ryou strokes his cheek. “Sorry, you said earlier, and I didn’t say it back. I _do_ like you.”

Malik kisses the corner of his mouth. “Can I stay?”

Ryou curls his body towards him. “As long as you like.”

*

Malik wakes in a single bed rammed against the wall. He lifts his head and blinks blearily at his surroundings. The walls are painted a duck-egg blue and there’s a faded wallpaper border of brightly-coloured steam trains below the ceiling. There are posters stuck to the paint: a magazine pull-out of _Devilman_ , Babymetal, an _X-Files_ ‘I Want to Believe’ poster, and a handful of postcards of Gothic art depicting attractive vampire men. There’s a desk under the window covered in tiny pots of paint and plastic pieces held up by crocodile clips. Against the opposite wall is a bookshelf groaning under the weight of books, manga, DVDs, and figures. Malik’s clothes are strewn about the dark blue carpet.

The bed is a single bed with a cream coverlet. Ryou is pressed close to Malik, partially due to the lack of space provided but mostly, Malik wants to think, due to affection. They’re lying on top of the sheets, on top of a tatty dressing gown that was once white but has been dulled to a weird grey.

_Huh,_ thinks Malik.

He could make a fuss. He could wake Ryou, demand an explanation, freak out, lose his temper. He’s tired, though, and still full of post-sex, post-confession bliss, so he just lies back down and holds Ryou.

It’s some time later when Ryou wakes up. The strength of the light coming through the curtains – also decorated with steam trains – has increased, so Malik pegs it as almost midday. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Malik, but does seem surprised to see his room.

“Oh,” he says.

Malik sits up. Ryou follows.

“Is this when you tell me about… I dunno, a curse or something?” he says.

“Maybe?” says Ryou. “Would it make you feel better if I did? I haven’t seen those in a long time,” he says, pointing at the Gothic postcards. “My taste in art was _terrible_ when I was younger.”

Malik brushes Ryou’s hair from his shoulder and kisses it gently. “Want me to dress up in a shitty Halloween costume next time?”

Ryou snorts. He turns his head, kisses Malik’s nose, and Malik draws him into a good few minutes of tonsil tennis before he says, “I’m sorry, I _really_ need a shower, I have… _you_ on my thighs and it’s really sticky and getting uncomfortable.”

“Can I come with?” says Malik.

Ryou takes his hand. “Please,” he says.

They hold hands as Ryou shows the way around the house. The first stop is an airing cupboard to get clean towels and then down the hallway to a plain, white-tiled bathroom.

“This was way fancier when the house was creepy,” Malik says.

“Oh?” says Ryou. He’s fiddling with the cubicle shower’s controls. “You’re lucky. The bathroom I kept getting was some kind of Versailles thing. It looked very pretty, but the toilet didn’t flush and the water was always cold.”

He crows in delight when he succeeds in turning the shower on, then squeals when it comes out cold and leaps back into Malik’s arms. Once the water’s warmed up they get into the small cubicle together. Most of the shower is spent kissing, and washing each other quickly becomes an excuse for mutual masturbation, but when they leave the room wrapped in towels they are technically cleaner.

Ryou lends Malik underwear, socks, and a shirt, but Malik’s trousers are fine so he pulls those back on. Ryou dresses in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and an oversized hoodie. Malik looks through his wardrobe for fancy nightgowns and Lolita blouses but the closest he can find is an old school shirt.

They breakfast in the modest kitchen on buttered toast. They explore the house together after eating and Ryou’s taken his medication. It’s a lot smaller now, and more modern: the walls are stone and plaster instead of wood and paper, doors of white wood with handles, and floors with carpets instead of tatami mats.

“I need to get back,” Malik says reluctantly. They’ve fallen together onto a sofa in the living room. It’s got a horrible brown pattern of flowers but it’s surprisingly comfortable. The wallpaper is also floral, but Malik’s trying to ignore it because the pattern is different to the sofa and if he thinks about it too long he’s going to end up tearing the paper down with his bare hands.

“Oh,” says Ryou. He removes his hand from Malik’s knee.

“I didn’t bring my phone,” says Malik, “and my sister and Rishid will be wondering where I am.”

Isis has probably already phoned all the nearby police stations and hospitals. Rishid will have visited them.

Ryou looks down at his feet. “Will you come back?” he says. His voice is so small.

Malik cups Ryou’s cheek, turns his head until they’re face-to-face. “Obviously,” he says, and kisses Ryou.

Ryou clings to Malik’s borrowed shirt.

“Come with me,” Malik says suddenly.

“Pardon?” says Ryou. His eyes are wide.

“Come with me,” Malik repeats. “Meet my family. Stay for lunch. Rishid will make us something. He’s my brother, mostly, but also a bit like a mother.”

“I don’t know,” says Ryou. His hands are shaking.

Malik intertwines their fingers. “I’ll be with you,” he says. “It’s not a long walk from here to my house. If you get uncomfortable we can lock ourselves in my room. That’s basically what I do all the time anyway, so it’s not like Isis or Rishid will mind.”

Ryou rubs his thumb over Malik’s hand. “I would like to meet them,” he says softly. “I would like to see your house.”

Malik kisses his knuckles.

Ryou takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Please don’t let go of my hand?”

Malik grins. “Never,” he promises.

He gently mocks Ryou when he pulls on the Uggs instead of _proper_ shoes, but Ryou’s only mock-offended. When he opens the front door Ryou hesitates. Malik steps out, onto the first stone step, and looks up at the house. It’s a very ordinary house: two stories, of brick and stone, with glass windows.

“Oh, one moment,” says Ryou. He ducks out of sight. When he reappears he’s holding a statue. It’s a squat thing, an angry red demon, its hair flying around its head like a halo, dressed in all black.

“Thank you for all your help,” says Ryou. “I’ll be all right on my own now.”

He puts the statue on the ground outside the door. He locks the front door behind him, keys jangling merrily, and puts them in his pocket.

“Ready?” says Malik.

Ryou takes his hand, and together they walk away.

*


End file.
